


Heimweh

by ragtags



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal, Crepes, Emotional, Falling In Love, Feelings, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Food, M/M, NSFW, Realizations of Love, Rimming, Sex, Smut, Soft feelings, Sushi, baby's first smut fic, blowjob, good omens tv show characters, hand holding, it's fucking nsfw, semi canon events, soft, y'all i don't even know what to fucking tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-11-08 03:02:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20828321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragtags/pseuds/ragtags
Summary: It wasn’t just a reminder for Crowley, Aziraphale realized as he stroked one of the wings of the bird statue. The memories flooded his mind almost instantly as he remembered that night in 1941 when he had been held up at gunpoint by Nazis, and Crowley had come to save the day; to rescue him.It was the day Aziraphale realized something gut-wrenchingly terrible about himself.





	Heimweh

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nimravidae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/gifts).

It had been a day of uncertainty.

It had been a day of misrule by Heaven and Hell.

It had been a day Aziraphale would never forget.

It had been a day where Aziraphale should have known what to expect. 

In fact, he probably did know, somewhere deep down, that Crowley was going to ask him. It had, after all, been quite the eventful day- he had temporarily inhabited a woman’s body, and together he, Crowley, and a group of children had single handedly ended Armageddon...twice. So if Aziraphale had been quite _ perfectly honest _ with himself, he should have seen this coming.

“You can stay at my place, if you’d like.” Crowley’s words had been soft; softer than Aziraphale had ever remembered them being. _ Yes _ , he wanted to say; wanted to turn to Crowley with his large blue eyes and desperation to find some place where he belonged and settle down there. Heaven wasn’t going to take him back after this. His shop was burnt to the ground. Yet somehow, the more Crowley pressed, the more Aziraphale felt himself choking down the automatic _ no _ that was bound to escape his lips.

But that’s what a demon was at heart, no? Temptation. The desire for things that were, by definition, unattainable. A thousand times Crowley could ask, _ would _ ask, and a thousand times Aziraphale’s heart would scream yes, but his brain would relay a different message. Each time, temptation would lap at his lips, coaxing the “yes” that wanted to come out, only to be swallowed down with the croak of a “no”.

“I don’t think my side would like that very much.” Aziraphale could feel his heart sink ever so slightly in his chest; it was easier to follow the path he’d walked on for 6,000 years than to say what he truly meant. To say yes would be blasphemy. 

“We’re on our own side, angel.”

It was true; it was true and it hurt. It hurt more than a thousand suns and Aziraphale found himself still not ready to swallow and admit that, even though he knew it to be true. He gripped hold of Agnes’s last prophecy tighter in his coat pocket as he looked away, too afraid to look Crowley in the eye.

Too afraid to say yes. 

Too afraid to properly blaspheme.

Too afraid to think of himself as being truly, and utterly _ Fallen. _

Honestly, the idea of at least returning to Soho to survey the damage seemed to be a fitting ending to his day. He could stare at the charred heap of his home and reflect on the parallels that he and his shop shared. The proper finality of actions taken and the consequences that followed in the end. He could stare for hours at the burnt shop and think back to the hours before wherein he had attempted to contact a higher power, where he had stood in the hopes of preventing all of this. He could stare, and know deep down that had he not challenged; had he not questioned Heaven, his shop may well have still been there. Perhaps, if he’d been a better angel, he could have lived a happy life pretending to be blissfully unaware of what Heaven was doing.

In the end, as they both boarded a bus bound for London without knowing why it was heading that way, he agreed. Sure, he could Fall, but wasn’t that what he was doing now? Falling? Questioning her Great Plans? He had already betrayed Heaven, one more blasphemous act couldn’t do that much more damage. 

“You’re sure it’ll be alright?” Aziraphale asked quietly, his fingers digging into his pants as he turned to look out the window; up at the moon that still hung high in the sky, right where it should be; where it was meant to be, “To stay with you, that is.”

“Wh--” Crowley began, his head swiveling to look at the back of Aziraphale’s head, “Of course it’s alright. I asked you. Why would I ask you if it wouldn’t it be alright?”

_I don’t want to impose. I don’t know if this right. I want this to be alright._

“I- I’m sorry. You’re right.” His tone had faltered, gone a little softer than what it should have. Aziraphale’s gaze dropped from staring up at the moon to looking at his hands still clutching his pants. What he hadn’t expected was for Crowley to take his hand and hold it gently, reassuringly, but Aziraphale was pleasantly surprised that he did. He, in turn, laced his fingers with Crowley’s and stared. 

When silence was the only thing that greeted him, Aziraphale turned his attention back to the moon.

“It is lovely to see it’s still here,” Aziraphale began.

_I’m glad you’re still here, Crowley. _

“The moon, I mean,” he continued.

There was silence, because of course there would be silence. The pair sat there with Aziraphale’s words slowly dying in the ether of a one sided conversation. Crowley had made some acknowledgement of Aziraphale’s comments of the moon, but aside from a muffled grunt in agreement, the bus grew quiet. He could feel it, growing in the pit of his stomach- that instinct reaction to say something, _ anything _that might bring about some sort of reaction from Crowley. 

_“You know, dear boy, I think Heaven and Hell might be wrong about all of this.”_

_ "Oh! Crowley! Perhaps this will mean we get a small holiday from all of this?” _

_“You know, we could turn this bus around and go to Paris for some crepes.”_

“I managed to save one of Agnes’s last prophecies.” 

_Please, I know you’re tired. I am too. But please, say something._

Aziraphale perked up a bit as he fished through his coat pockets to pull out the final prophecy. He turned it over in his hand carefully, his thumb gently caressing paper so old, so fragile, it might break with the slightest bit of forced pressure. Next to him, Crowley shuffled in his seat and slumped over with his head gently resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

There’s a word - it’s a German word - that means homesickness. A nostalgia for something one used to have or be apart of, but is no longer. It’s a feeling Aziraphale had known when he fought in the Rebellion. He had felt it again when he’d been assigned to the Easten Gate of Eden. And he felt it now, with Crowley slumped up against him softly breathing against his neck as he slept on their bus ride home to London, their hands still intertwined. He wished then, on that bus, that he could remember what that word was. 

It was the kind of longing and homesickness that had once held a different meaning with Aziraphale missing heaven- now manifested in the harrowing thought of what life would have been had they failed. He was homesick for Earth, for his bookshop that no longer existed- for Crowley, gently asleep against his shoulder. Aziraphale had never known such a feeling could transfer its objective so willingly, but he swallowed and turned to look once more out the bus window. He had, if nothing else, found the homesick feeling slowly melting with every exhale Crowley produced. 

The rest of the ride home to London was silent, with Aziraphale lost in the thoughts of what was to come next; and Crowley asleep at his side.

“Come on, dear boy, we’re home,” Aziraphale had finally said as the bus rolled up to Crowley’s flat. He paused at the word home, letting it linger on his tongue for just a moment while Crowley stirred and sat up. He watched as his demon counterpart stretched his limbs and cracked his spine before standing up; a soft smile playing against his face, even if there was a hidden panic behind his blue eyes.

“Ngk, that was quick,” Crowley yawned as he gave another full body stretch before he sauntered off towards the door. He wouldn’t have seen it, unless he had eyes in the back of his head, but if Crowley had turned around, even for a second, he would have seen the light in Aziraphale’s eyes dimmed for just a moment as the reality of their situation began to once more weigh down on him.

Crowley’s flat, like most things, reminded Aziraphale of Heaven. It was strange, really, as the pair walked through the threshold and into the stark, minimalist room. The only differences Aziraphale could pinpoint at a glance was that it was darker than Heaven, warmer than Heaven, and at least it had some vibrance in the form of perfectly manicured house plants. Otherwise, the barren home seemed to be a perfect, cold replica of the place Aziraphale had, until recently, thought of fondly. Perhaps, in hindsight, he might have realized the stark differences of their abodes had he thought of how they lived. How his bookshop was filled to the brim with human pleasures and material values, compared to how basic and simple Crowley kept things. Perhaps Aziraphale would have realized the cold stone walls Crowley surrounded himself in as if he had made a metaphorical prison that resembled Heaven severely differed from the warm, homey feel that his bookshop had. 

He didn’t realize any of this. 

Mostly because, as they crossed the threshold into the flat, his eyes wandered straight to the lush green foliage that decorated the main halls and rooms.

“Oh my,” Aziraphale sighed in a breathless wonder.

“Hmm?”  
  
“What _ marvelous _ plants you have, Crowley.” 

It was perhaps a bit sensuous, the way Aziraphale’s hand came up to stroke the leaves and petals of each of the plants as he walked down the hallway. He couldn’t help it though; he hadn’t seen plants as perfect as this since Eden. Sure, there was flora constantly around him, but even he saw their defects from human interactions and interventions. It was a shame, really, when he’d thought about it - something he tried to not do often - how terribly humans had been towards the Earth and all of Her creations. The trees that lived in St. James’s Park were some of the most beautiful trees he’d ever seen, but over the years the pollution had dwindled them into mere shells of their former selves from before the Industrial Revolution. Yet here, tucked away in a flat that resembled a prison more than a home, the plants thrived and looked glorious. 

“Don’t.” Crowley had stopped mid stride to look at Aziraphale tenderly caressing his plants; his tone was full of warning. “You’re going to give them the wrong idea.”

“Oh, come now, Crowley,” Aziraphale chided gently with a smile as he ran his fingers down an exceptionally large leaf of a small tree, “you should be proud of your work. They are simply stunning!”

Crowley made a noise, or rather, Aziraphale simply assumed he made a noise; his attention had long since turned back to the tree he was stroking when the sound erupted from Crowley. There was something about these plants that gave him a sense of hope, a sense of belonging; they gave him a sense of understanding that everything was going to be okay. It was silly, perhaps, to think that these plants could do so much for one celestial being, but he marveled at the care and effort Crowley had put into them. There was love that shone through each and every last plant as he slowly made his way down the hallway, introducing himself to each and every one of them. Somehow, that left him with a warmth in his heart that he hadn’t felt over the course of the last week.

When he had quite thoroughly finished greeting every last plant that lived in Crowley’s flat - seventy four to be exact - Aziraphale found himself wandering down a particular corridor that led to Crowley’s office. Crowley was inside, hastily cleaning up papers that had been strewn about the floor and his desk and quite literally stuck to the walls. 

“What’s all this?” Aziraphale asked in a low, curious voice as he wandered into the room. Crowley’s head snapped up, papers full of illustrations of planets and nebulas clutched in his hands.

“Nothing. Just... got a bit busy earlier.”

Aziraphale’s brow lifted as he glanced at one of the pages with the image of a nebula he was all too familiar with. The realization began to sink into his head. 

_Oh. You were going to leave._

_You meant it then. Us. Running away. Together._

“I see,” he said, voice soft as he watched Crowley scramble to pick up the papers. A kind gesture, if nothing else, Aziraphale thought as he took in the sight of Crowley’s office - a literal throne room fit for a King with his red chair and desk facing the Elizabeth Tower and Parliament. A devil watching over the rulers of the land. Fitting, if Crowley did more than the occasional tempting of a politician or state worker. Yet Aziraphale’s eyes flickered back to the papers in Crowley’s hands, his face dropping.

They could have run away together.

They could have done exactly what Crowley had said and, even if it was blasphemous, who would have really known if they’d run away or died in the war that was to be?

“You okay, angel?”

Crowley’s voice snapped Aziraphale back to reality as blue eyes shot up to meet the yellow serpent eyes staring at him. There was something there, something hidden behind Crowley’s otherwise still face that Aziraphale could have placed as concern. Worry, perhaps. Something less than demonic. Perhaps he was just overthinking things.

“Ahh, yes. Terribly sorry, dear. Thinking. That’s all.”

“Oh? What about?” Crowley murmured, slithering up a little closer, the hidden concern on his face showing a bit more. Aziraphale could place that look anywhere. He’d seen it before, when Crowley thought he wasn’t looking. He’d seen it when God prepared to flood the Earth, save for Noah and his family. He’d seen it again when Jesus was strung up on the cross.Each time concern washed across Crowley’s face it was because Heaven was about to do something awful. Now, Crowley stared at him and Aziraphale could feel his heart sinking into his stomach.

“Ahh. Nothing really, I suppose. Just. Well, just about what the next move is.”

He could feel himself shrinking, there in Crowley’s flat. Like an ant under a magnifying glass, the mere mention of thinking about Heaven and Hell sent him spiraling into a whirlwind of ‘what if’s’ and ‘what’s next’.

“Don’t think we have to worry about that tonight, angel,” Crowley hummed, a little too dismissively, and the worry flashed across Aziraphale’s face just as quickly as Crowley had begun to talk. He could almost feel Crowley recoil at his reaction, as if unsure of how to proceed. Aziraphale looked up at him and offered the tiniest of smiles.

“No. No, I suppose you’re right, dear.”

“Mmmf, ‘course I’m right, angel. M’always right.” 

There was something in the way Crowley spoke that left Aziraphale staring at him as he brushed past him and back towards the hallway. The dismissive tone held something else, something Aziraphale couldn’t quite place, but something he knew to be out of a place of kindness. Perhaps the reassurance in acting ‘mightier than thou’ was what triggered it, but Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel himself properly smiling as Crowley walked past.

“C’mon angel. I’ll get the room set up for you. You hungry?”  
  
“O-oh,” Aziraphale began as he turned to follow him. Yet something caught his eye in the hallway, giving him a moment of pause as he stared at the statue that seemed to stare back at him.

It seemed that Crowley’s flat held more treasures than Aziraphale had first realized. Sure, there were a plethora of plants that rivaled those of Eden, and yes, Crowley’s flat resembled Heaven in a way that Aziraphale couldn’t fully put his finger on, but _ this _. This he knew. Slowly, delicately even, his hand lifted and caressed the beak of the stone statue. It wouldn’t take a therapist to understand the importance of this particular statue, and what it meant to him, and why Crowley had it tucked neatly away in the hallway directly at the entrance to his office. 

It was a reminder.

It wasn’t just a reminder for Crowley, Aziraphale realized as he stroked one of the wings of the bird statue. The memories flooded his mind almost instantly as he remembered that night in 1941 when he had been held up at gunpoint by Nazis, and Crowley had come to save the day; to _ rescue _ him. 

It was the day Aziraphale realized something gut-wrenchingly terrible about himself.

It was, if he was quite honest with himself, the real day he had wholly, and truly Fallen. Well, fallen in love with a demon, that is.

Being an angel is a funny thing. 

Being a demon is probably equally as funny.

It’s a yin and yang sort of situation; two halves of a whole never meant to touch or meet or coexist in a way that is natural. Yet here Aziraphale stood in the middle of a hallway caressing the old, weathered stone of a statue that held more emotional and literal physical importance than anything else he had seen. It was as if God Herself had come down and put this in his way, as if to prove that something was meant to be there. As if it were a message to him directly. Silly, because God hadn’t spoken to anyone since Noah and the flood, and Aziraphale knew this. Yet still, somewhere in the back of his mind, this meant something.

_You kept this. Why did you come back and take this from the church?_

_Did you know? Back then? Did you know and I couldn’t see?_

_Do you feel the way I feel? Is this right?_

“Oi! You coming, angel?”

“Yes! Yes, sorry! Coming!” Aziraphale gave the statue one last look, fingers running over the top of the bird’s head before he shuffled down towards the main living area. 

There wasn’t much to Crowley’s flat, especially the living area. Just one leather couch against the far wall, a mahogany coffee table placed neatly in front of the couch, and a flat screen television hung against the opposite wall. What _ was _ nice about it was how open floor it was; the kitchen and dining connecting to the main living space, with two doors off shooting to two separate bedrooms. It was nice, but it didn’t feel lived in. At least, not properly lived in, like his bookshop.

Aziraphale looked around, taking it all in as if he were in a replica version of Heaven where they had _ some _human pleasures. Still, it didn’t feel like home.

“Right. So. What’re you in the mood for then?” Crowley’s voice cut through the buzzing of Aziraphale’s brain as he shifted abruptly to look at him.

“Ahh. I’m not sure, really. We could call in sushi, perhaps? Or, maybe some crepes.”

He stood there, fidgeting with his hands as he looked down at the ground. In reality, he wasn’t entirely hungry, which was a surprise even for himself. 

“I’m not entirely sure if the takeaway is open this late, but I’m sure we can find something.”

This time, when Crowley made a noise, Aziraphale was paying just enough attention to catch and place it; a scoff and an eye roll at the mention of takeaway. Confusion flashed across his face as Crowley sauntered over towards him.

“Why? I’ll just cook.”

“Demons can cook?”

A beat.

“Wh--yes? Angels can’t?”

“Well, well we can, we’re just not very _ good at it _.”

It wasn’t that it was funny to Crowley, but it was. He couldn’t help but chuckle; Aziraphale face was growing redder by the second. 

Here’s the thing. It wasn’t that Angels _ couldn’t _ cook, they just never had a need for it. Angels didn’t typically soil their celestial temples with gross human matter - unless they were Aziraphale - so the necessity never came up. Aziraphale had _ tried _ to cook in the past, he really had, but each time his creations would turn bland or simply burn. It was a necessary evil he had long ago decided: if he was going to enjoy food, he would let the human professionals handle making it. After all, they seemed to have a better grasp on how to properly put one thing into an oven and receive an entirely different thing. 

“Oh come now,” he found himself chiding at Crowley with a scowl on his face, “it’s really not that funny.”

Crowley simply smiled, placed his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders and guided him towards the couch. Aziraphale sighed to himself as he pulled off his coat and folded it.

“Mmm. You sit. I’ll think of something.”

So he sat there, hands crossed on top of his lap, staring down at his shoes in contemplative silence.

Being alone with one’s thoughts is never a good idea. It’s the sort of thing that usually leaves the afflicted party in worse trouble than when they started, with a constant stream of should haves, could haves, and would haves. Even in company, being lost in yourself and your mind is never a good thing, and Aziraphale couldn’t seem to drag himself out of the pit he’d found himself in.

It would have been a lie to say that he only had Agnes’s prophecy on his mind, but the reality was that Aziraphale could only think of Heaven and Hell and what exactly they planned to do, and that bird statue. What would he and Crowley do? How were they going to get out of this one? Why did Crowley return to the remains of that church and take that eagle?

They had been good for 6,000 years to maintain a level of secrecy in their meetings and in their get togethers, but now the proverbial cat was out of the bag and both sides knew. 

They knew of his treason. Of Crowley’s treason.

The thought of what fate awaited them in the future - nearer rather than far - left Aziraphale silent on the couch, lost in a sea of terrified morbid curiosity for what would befall them. Slowly, he reached into his lapel pocket and brought out the torn and slightly burnt piece of prophecy.

_When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choose your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre._

He read it, studied each letter and word, holding the paper tightly then loosely, turning it over in his hands and reading it again; as if reading it continually could somehow allow the answer to jump out in front of him. There was something there, for him, and he knew it.He just... couldn’t see it.

“Aziraphale!”

The runaway train of thought was broken by Crowley standing in the middle of the room staring down at him. Yellow eyes scanned Aziraphale’s face, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it was concern driving Crowley or irritation that he’d zoned out yet again. Nevertheless, he smiled gently, tucked the prophecy back into his pocket, and looked at Crowley.

“Sorry. I seemed to have wandered off in my thoughts.”

“Mmm. You good, angel?”

“Yes. Yes, I do believe so. Why do you ask?”

“Mmm just worried ‘bout you.”

A momentary lapse of silence. Aziraphale’s hands began fidgeting once more as he looked from Crowley back to his feet. There’d be uncertainty, because of course there’d be uncertainty. It’s all a sensitive subject in the end, isn’t it?

“Right, well. Food’s ready if you’re feeling peckish.”

He stood, numbly, blue eyes dimmed by the train of thoughts that still lingered in the back of his mind as he followed Crowley into the kitchen. 

“Oh. Oh!” Aziraphale’s eyes lit up as he looked to the kitchen island in front of him.

On the center island in front of him sat a plate stuffed to the brim with large crêpes perfectly rolled up and cut into bite sized pieces similar to sushi that sat perfectly in three separate lines; each one overflowing with fresh kiwi, strawberries, blueberries, and whipped cream. Each fruit was as plump and luscious as what Aziraphale had remembered in Eden.

Even the pastry itself was cooked to perfection with a thin layer of caramelized sugar coating the outside. It was lightly browned with the fruit and sugar drizzle running down the sides. The top of each roll had an equally full array of cut peaches and more whipped cream, as well as what seemed to be a slight cherry drizzle. There, in the center of Crowley’s kitchen, sat the perfect combination of Aziraphale’s greatest human pleasures: crêpes in the shape and style of sushi. 

What had really caught Aziraphale’s attention was the smell. It was warm and sweet; sticky and smooth all at once. Hot and cold meshed perfectly together in a symphony of aromas that tickled his nose and left his stomach aching for a bite. This was perhaps the single best smell that his nose had ever been graced with.

“Oh these look...these look simply _ divine _, dear!” Aziraphale stood there and reveled in delight as he looked down at what had clearly been a labor of love.

He couldn’t help himself, because of course he couldn’t. 

The whipped cream reflected in the shine of his blue eyes as he stared at it, raising a finger and swiping through one of the pillows that sat upon a slice of crêpe. Aziraphale marveled at it for a moment, completely consumed by the desire to devour it right then and there, but also to savor each bite slowly, and marvel at the time and effort that had been put into creating such a masterpiece. 

Slowly, he dipped his pointer finger into his mouth, tongue swirling around the whipped cream with its hints of vanilla as he savoured the first taste. His eyes closed, a soft moan escaped his lips; a human delight that he would have surely missed had the world ended. The moment came and passed, but as he opened his eyes and reached down for a second taste and scooped up a second dollop of cream, something else caught his attention. Crowley’s hand had reached up and grabbed hold of Aziraphale’s wrist, holding steadfast with just the slightest of pressure. 

“Crowley…?” came the hushed voice of Aziraphale as Crowley guided their hands towards his own mouth. The noises Aziraphale tried to stifle in that moment as Crowley closed his lips around his finger would have made any good nun faint. 

The sensation of Crowley’s forked tongue wrapping around Aziraphale’s finger as it licked off the whipped cream. The feeling of warmth from Crowley’s mouth. The way Crowley’s eyes closed as he took Aziraphale’s hand and sucked off the whipped cream in one seamless act. 

It was all too much for Aziraphale. 

Crowley, for all he was worth, only smiled as his eyes flashed over the fifty shades of red that Aziraphale’s face was turning. 

“Too fast for you, angel?” he asked in that wily tone of his, and all Aziraphale could manage was an incoherent string of noises that eventually manifested into a croaked, “Mmm.”

Crowley slid a little closer, closing the gap between them as he watched Aziraphale’s face flush deeper. He smiled, and Aziraphale could have sworn there was something hidden behind those half lidded serpent eyes that he knew. Something that he as an angel should have recognized but didn’t. Crowley pulled him in closer, their hips bumping against each other as Crowley’s hand slid down to the small of Aziraphale’s back.

“See you found the statue,” Crowley hummed in a low voice, his head leaning in as he took in the smell of Aziraphale’s cologne. “Wasn’t sure if you’d remember it.”

Aziraphale was nothing less than a deer in headlights. He was paralyzed, standing there so close to Crowley, no longer able to smell the waning warmth of the crêpes, but rather the scent of Crowley’s cologne and musk. He’d make a mental note for later - sushi crêpes were the second best smell he’d ever encountered.

Cooking was a hard job; it required skill and time and effort and sweat, and Aziraphale could smell all of that as Crowley dipped his head down and placed a kiss on his neck. It was like a shock to the system; a terrible, unyielding electric pulse that drove through Aziraphale’s body as he stood there unable to move. His mind had begun racing now, thinking back through every last moment they’d shared over the last 6,000 years. The dinners, the luncheons in parks, the late night ‘meetings’ full of three hundred year old bottles of wine. All of it came rushing back and back until his mind stumbled back to Eden; back to the wall. 

_Didn’t you have a flaming sword? You did! It was flaming like anything. What happened to it?_

_...I gave it away._

_You what?_

Oh.

Like a boulder crashing down the side of a mountain and rolling off a cliff into the sea, the realization hit him with full force. It had been there, plain as day, because of course it had been there. He’d just been too blind to notice. He had eventually noticed, sure, but he’d never been able to confirm it until now with Crowley pulling away and looking at him and the sudden flash of desperation that flooded Aziraphale’s face. He was an _ angel _ . He should have _ seen _ the love. _ Known _ the love was there. That’s what angels are, right? Beings of light and love. They can sense it. They know when it presents itself, and yet, for 6,000 years Aziraphale stood next to Crowley blissfully ignorant of the signs that he was _ designed to notice. _

“Crowley,” he said, but this time it came out as barely a whisper. Crowley’s face had changed in a way Aziraphale had never seen before, and it was hard to place the expression. Hope? Confusion? Fear? He couldn’t place what Crowley’s expression looked like, but he knew that it was something new. Something different. To him, at least.

“Sorry. Sorry. M’not sure what--” Crowley began, the fear and confusion taking hold of his face as he looked to Aziraphale, who stood there still with his mouth open trying to find words other than Crowley’s name. He went to take a step back, to remove himself from the situation - it was what he was best at after all - when Aziraphale grabbed at his jacket and pulled him in.

He was an angel, and save for a short jaunt with Oscar Wilde, he’d never really found the point in relationships with humans, let alone a demon. Human pleasures were materialistic; they were things that could be bought, or had and enjoyed over and over again. For Aziraphale, the idea of having ‘a relationship’ or any sort of partnership just didn’t appeal to him. Humans died. It would be endless heartbreak, and it was something he wasn’t wholly prepared for. He’d done it once, with Oscar, and the pain of it left him wanting to never experience it again. He’d stick to the material things; to the things he could hold onto forever that wouldn’t leave him. Crowley was different, and the realization had begun to set in. If this was what the humans had meant when they said they loved another, then Aziraphale was beginning to understand it.

Aziraphale clung to Crowley’s jacket as if he were hanging on for dear life as he tilted his head to kiss him on the lips.

_I should have known._

_I looked, but I never really saw._

_Oh, my dear, forgive me for being so blind._

It was tender, because that’s all Aziraphale had ever known in his short time trying to grasp the ideals of romance. A soft kiss, gentle on the lips without being scandalous. Crowley’s lips were softer than he’d ever imagined them to be - which in itself was blasphemous - but Aziraphale found himself imagining all the same. He wanted to push forward, wanted to match Crowley’s speed.

He _ wanted to feel something that felt like home. _

The thing was, if Aziraphale was being honest with himself, being with Crowley had always felt like he was home. It had just taken him a little over 6,000 years to realize it.

He let the kiss linger.Not too long, but long enough that the hopeful idea and understanding was passed along to Crowley. When he pulled back, his blue eyes shone brighter than they had in the past two hundred years.

“Oh, oh I’m... I’m terribly sorry,” Aziraphale sputtered quickly as he took a step back, his hand rising and carding through his blonde locks. “I don’t, I don’t know where that came from. Oh, I’m-”

Crowley stopped him mid sentence by pulling him close? and kissing him once more. It was unexpected, but wanted. Oh Lord, was it wanted. 

It was different this time; it was harder, faster, _ hungrier. _ Crowley pushed Aziraphale against the kitchen wall, his hands running up his torso and wrapping around to his shoulder blades where his wings would have been had they not been stuck in human shells.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tried as Crowley broke their kiss. He hummed contentedly as he dove back down to kiss over Aziraphale’s carotid artery.

“Don’t,” Crowley warned. His eyes flickered as he planted a kiss over the vein before shifting and sucking a bruise onto Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale let out a soft moan, his hands curling up into Crowley’s thick locks.

“_ Oh _ ,” he sighed against the kiss, trying to steady himself against the wall. His mind had, for once, gone blank. Unable to put together words or thoughts or phrases. Just _ Crowley. _ Just his name.

_ Oh, _Aziraphale thought as Crowley dipped back up, kissing his mouth once more. There was warmth in these kisses, but Crowley was hungry, and Aziraphale was a feast waiting to be devoured. 

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed in surprise as Crowley pulled them both from the wall and hoisted him up onto the kitchen island. He couldn’t help but notice through half lidded eyes and fiery kisses the passion that flooded through Crowley as he fumbled with eager anticipation.

There had been a moment, in 1967, when Aziraphale had thought maybe one day, the two of them would go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz. He hadn’t meant it in a literal sense, rather he’d meant it as a way they could spend time together. To properly, without work watching, enjoy each others company. He had known, of course, in 1941 that he had fallen quite terribly in love with Crowley, and again in 1969 when he’d handed off that thermos of Holy Water. He had feared for Crowley’s safety; wished perhaps he could be brave enough to match his speed so he didn’t feel as though he was too slow for him. 

That was then, and this was now.

It should be noted that while Aziraphale considered himself one of the last true angels of the Lord; a devout worshiper and entirely pure entity and being of light, there would be a moment in his functionally immortal life when he would cry out Her name in ecstasy. He would beg for Her forgiveness, eventually, but for now, he’d give way to the temptation that slithered between his legs. He would commit sacrilege, and he would love every moment of it. 

“_ Oh, _” Aziraphale gasped as a warmth bubbled up in his stomach. Crowley’s hands held him fast against the table as he worked himself lower between Aziraphale’s thighs. Aziraphale swallowed as he watched Crowley fumble with his belt, grumbling quietly to himself as he pulled Aziraphale’s pants off. 

Aziraphale had always admired humans and their ways of showing affection, especially physically with one another, but this was something entirely new. 

“_ Ooh-- _” Aziraphale moaned when Crowley’s lips made contact. It was an electrical shock that reverberated throughout his body as Crowley’s mouth closed around him.

He had loved before, that was true. It was true in the way that the sky was blue and the grass was green. Aziraphale had loved because that was what he was meant to do. It was his purpose. He loved all things, big and small. He’d even taken a lover once, in the hopes that he could understand love the way humans did. In the end, he didn’t, and though he mourned for Oscar, he had come to realize that perhaps humans loved differently than angels or demons. It seemed a simple thing. Angels could love objectively; they could sense and see the love and warmth around them. They could love platonically, love in a way that was never a threat to themselves or anyone else. They could love without the fear of what it could possibly mean to live in a world where that love became an empty void.

“Oh--!” came the rush of breath as his fingers curled into Crowley’s hair. Crowley’s head lifted to look at Aziraphale, a smile on his face as he licked his lips.

“Too fast?” Crowley smirked as he pulled back.

“Oh, oh-- _ Not at all _, dear.” Aziraphale swallowed thickly. “But, oh, please. Let me repay the favor. I want to--”

“Let me indulge you.” 

The words were heavy. They were thick with want and desire. His eyes were fully serpentine, pupils dilated. Aziraphale could feel the warmth of his breath on his skin, and the sharp chill of air as he moved away. Oh, how he wished for Crowley to come back, to fill that growing void of ice cold air. 

“Oh, oh but my darling--”

“Please. Allow me this.”

Crowley’s words sent a shiver up Aziraphale’s spine. Never had he heard Crowley’s voice drop with desire and lust. Never had he heard Crowley ask for something like this, and somewhere deep in the core of his being, he hoped Crowley would never stop. 

Aziraphale had always been one for material objects. He was a hoarder of things rare and impossible to obtain. Things that he could hold in his hand, and use to physically draw back memories. Mostly, those consisted of rare prophetic books and other lost tomes and scrolls from an ancient Egyptian library that had long since burned to the ground. Yet he couldn’t help but find himself desperate and hungry for this. This new thing that enveloped his senses at every turn. He wished so dearly to catalogue it, to store it somewhere deep in a library that he could return to at any moment when he needed a distraction. When he needed to remember this moment, this feeling - this feeling of lips and skin and warmth. This feeling that had been so unknown to him for so long.

He wanted to pull Crowley in, wanted to kiss him firmly, resolutely. He wanted to savor every last spark that would have flown between them and catalogue it in his brain. And he tried. He leaned forward, his hands grabbing for Crowley’s jacket, but Crowley was faster. Hands still firmly grasped at Aziraphale’s hips, Crowley hoisted him up off the counter, kissing him hard. Aziraphale would have melted then and there - a full discorporation of body and soul - had Crowley not spun him around. He had been lost in that moment of lust, his brain lagging about three minutes behind what was happening in that moment of pure joy. 

When the sharp cold of the counter hit his stomach and thighs, his brain snapped back to reality. 

“Crow--” had been all Aziraphale could manage. His skin was aflame with sensation as Crowley’s hands ran up his torso, shrugging the fabric of his shirt and vest up; his mouth trailing kisses down his spine. Everything became a whirlwind as Aziraphale desperately tried to retrace and remember each spot Crowley’s lips touched. 

He would categorize it all; this he swore.

Aziraphale could feel the warmth once more pooling inside of him. He could feel his face flushing, his hands and arms growing warm against the otherwise cold countertop. Anticipation flooded through his body like an ocean as he tried to think and prepare himself for whatever was coming. 

“Aah--!” Aziraphale gasped. Crowley’s hands had slid to his ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh as his tongue slithered over Aziraphale’s opening. Aziraphale hadn’t expected that- hadn’t expected Crowley to be able to do things like _ this _ with his tongue. He knew Crowley was talented, but _ this _made Aziraphale weak at the knees.

If this was what human pleasure really, truly was, then Aziraphale would never be hungry for food again. This would be his new obsession, his new craving. He didn’t care if it was sacrilege to give himself away like this to a demon. If Crowley continued to work his tongue the way he was doing, Aziraphale would blaspheme every day until the next Armageddon. 

“Oh, oh _ my dear _,” Aziraphale moaned against the countertop. Crowley’s mouth on his sensitive flesh was heaven. Plagued by wave after wave of sensation that Crowley provided, Aziraphale found himself lost in a blissful testimony he’d never once experienced with a human or otherwise. This, he thought, this had to be the epitome of what pleasure was. It wasn’t sushi, or little restaurants where they knew you. It wasn’t old bookshops full of scripture from long dead writers, or quick trips to France for pastries. It wasn’t all about material objectives - well, it was partly those - it was the sensation of being wholly, and fully, taken by the one you loved most in the world.

Aziraphale could have stayed like this forever. Would have stayed like this forever. Somewhere in the background noise of his thoughts of what else Crowley could do with his tongue, came the sound of muffled fumbling. He could only vaguely hear a soft snap of fingers and the sound of humming over the beautiful sensation the vibrations sent through Crowley's tongue and lips. Warm wetness like oil rocked into him and Aziraphale moaned again at the feeling of fingers replacing tongue.

But soon enough the sharp tinge of cold rushed back across his opening as Crowley moved away. Oh, how he wanted to protest; wanted to turn around and demand Crowley get back to the task at hand with that damned serpent tongue of his. 

His breath hitched as he felt Crowley shifted against him and press inside. It was slow at first, giving both parties a chance to test the waters . Aziraphale would not complain, could not complain. His voice was caught in his throat, and the only thing he could manage was a moaning sigh as Crowley took him whole. There were no words, no encouragement, no protest. There was only them. 

Crowley rocked and Aziraphale felt his entire world shatter. He could feel the change in how Crowley moved; how Crowley peppered kisses on the back of his neck. He could feel Crowley’s hands pinning his back down as he thrust, before they wandered up to where his wings would have been, gently running along shoulder blades and kissing between them. Aziraphale groaned as he felt a chilling electricity roll up his body as one of Crowley’s hands slipped under his stomach and began stroking him. 

Aziraphale’s world was shifting, morphing, falling apart in every way possible and rebuilding itself. He could only moan out vague words of praise as Crowley pulled him closer. This was it; this was how Aziraphale would discorporate and Heaven would take him and destroy him, and he would do it a million times over for this moment. 

When Aziraphale had been with Oscar, so many years ago, their relationship had been one built on words. They had met in a discreet gentlemen’s club. They had written to each other often. They hadn’t spent much time together in public, unless they had been walking to or from the club. It had been a time in Aziraphale’s life where Crowley had disappeared, and there was something that needed to fill that void. Oscar had been that, and while Aziraphale knew deep down it was perhaps something superficial. He had done his best to hope and believe that he could fully encase himself inside humanity, even if it was for a little while. So when Oscar began to come around with books and plays and spend hours upon hours in his bookshop, Aziraphale had thought perhaps he had succeeded. Perhaps he could be fully human, even if only for a short time.

They had kissed, he and Oscar. On many occasions both in the public eye of the other gentlemen of their club, and in the privacy of Oscar’s home. Aziraphale had never allowed Oscar to do such human things in his bookshop; that was Aziraphale’s place - an inner sanctum for himself and no one else. 

They had held hands, even. Sometimes discreetly in public, if they were feeling particularly scandalous. Aziraphale had always marveled at how humans could be so brilliant, and open, and magnificent, and kindx.But he also understood how cruel, and evil, and negative they could be as well. Oscar had hoped perhaps secret lovers could one day become less of a secret and more of a lover. 

Sometimes, Aziraphale wishes he could ask for Oscar’s soul to be allowed one week on Earth now, in the present, so he could see that his hope had become a reality. 

Once, in the sanctity of Oscar’s house, they had made love. Well, that’s what he had called it, anyway. It was soft, gentle - the kind of love people saw in movies. It was passionate and it was sweet. Sticky and messy and full of emotions. Aziraphale had never understood those emotions that Oscar talked and wrote about after that night. He had been there, surely, but he had not shared in the same feelings Oscar had droned on about for the days that followed. It was a shame, really, because Aziraphale could feel the love pouring off of him in a way that he’d never seen another human do. He’d felt as though perhaps he had cheated this poor human out of something special that he should have been sharing with other humans.

Aziraphale had ended their relationship shortly after that. Not because he didn’t care for Oscar; it was simply because he knew deep down that he could not experience those emotions with him.

He felt it now though - felt those feelings Oscar had poured out for him that night, only now with Crowley. It was like a light finally clicking on in his head, a loose connection finally jiggled back into place.

“Ngk, Aziraphale,” Crowley gasped as he began to rock faster. Aziraphale moaned softly as he pushed back against Crowley. He understood. They were, by a strange definition, a sort of yin and yang. Two opposites of a whole never to merge together. Never to become one. Yet here, in this moment, Aziraphale understood. Yin and yang were two opposites of a whole. Two becoming one. The joining of good and evil, mundane and superior. Never before had he realized it to be true more clearly than in that moment. This love for Crowley that he had, he’d never experienced with anyone else. An understanding that he would do anything for him- anything to save him. 

Anything to keep Crowley with him, safe and sound.

“Oh,” Aziraphale moaned thickly. “Oh, my love. My love.”

Crowley didn’t last much longer. He came suddenly, stroking Aziraphale as he did so.

Aziraphale felt it. Felt the warmth flood his body as they both held fast against the rest of the world. They both cried out, not to God, but instead to each other. They stood there, basking in the glow of the kitchen lights - two halves of a whole finally finding each other for the first time.

Crowley pulled out after a few moments and the chilled air that swept between them left Aziraphale missing the void of where Crowley’s body had just been. 

“Ahh, sorry,” Aziraphale managed as he looked at the mess he’d made. 

“Ngk, it’s fine, angel.”

Crowley snapped his fingers and the kitchen was clean, and so were they. Aziraphale turned around, huffing as he looked down at his fresh pair of slacks and Crowley’s tight jeans, all miracled back to normal. He couldn’t help it, because of course he couldn’t. His hand reached out, grabbing Crowley’s as he kissed over knuckles and fingers.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale began as he watched Crowley’s face. It had begun to turn about as many shades of red as his own had mere minutes ago. Something deep within his stomach churned in a way it never had before - A sudden desire to protect Crowley.The desperate need to pull him in and never let go. So he did. He stepped closer, pulling Crowley in with him until their bodies touched. Bright blue eyes stared into serpentine yellow before Aziraphale’s hand reached up and tilted Crowley’s head for a kiss. It was soft, like lovers do; gentle and sweet, yet firm and unyielding. It was a stance, a promise, that Aziraphale was making in that kiss. He wouldn’t leave. Not ever.

_ Oh my love. My darling. I will protect you from all the angels in Heaven and all the demons in Hell. _

Their kisses were soft. Short, peppery notes of promises so far left unsaid, and promises still to come. If he’d had a regular, working human heart, Aziraphale would have sworn it was going to burst through his chest.

“That’s it!” Aziraphale exclaimed as he pulled away from the kiss. His bright blue eyes twinkled in a way Crowley hadn’t seen for some time. It made him smirk.

“What’s it, angel? The sex?” 

“No. No. Agnes’s last prophecy! Look!” 

Aziraphale’s hands plunged into his pockets, digging up the torn piece of paper. Crowley rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Really? After all that, that’s all you can think about?” There was an annoyance in Crowley’s tone. He shoved his hands in his front pockets and huffed.

“Oh, oh my dear. Oh, my love, you don’t understand!” There was excitement now. So much excitement Aziraphale could have combusted at the seams. He shoved the paper into Crowley’s face.

“When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choose your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre! That’s it!”

“M’not gettin’ it, angel.”

“Oh, you wily old serpent. We need to _ become _each other! It’s the only way we’ll be able to get out of this!” Aziraphale’s expression had fallen a bit as he searched Crowley’s face. There was still a lapse of miscommunication. Aziraphale sighed, taking the paper and setting it on the kitchen island.

“Listen. I know you better than any of the demons in Hell. And you know me. Probably better than any of the angels in Heaven. 

“Yeah, and? What’s that got to do with anything?”

Aziraphale sighed and turned to Crowley, pulling him close and kissing the side of his mouth.

“I don’t know what fates await us in our respective home offices, but I doubt it’s going to be anything good. I don’t think it’s something we’ll be able to walk away from.” Aziraphale’s face fell, “But. If Agnes is right-- and she’s always right, then all we need to do is swap corporeal forms and, and we should be able to survive whatever it is they have planned! Easy!”

Crowley huffed and pushed away, frowning as he looked at Aziraphale. Aziraphale could feel his heart begin to drop into his stomach.

_ Please, my dear. Trust me. Just this once. Let me be the one to save you from Hell. _

“And how are we going to switch corporeal forms without discorporating both of us?”

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s hand. He gently placed a kiss over Crowley’s wrist before pulling him close once more.

“I think I have a plan. But I think, I think we’re going to need a bedroom for it to happen.” 

Crowley’s brows lifted in what seemed to be slight amusement, slight curiosity.

“Oh? Think I can make that happen.”

Crowley smirked, snapping his fingers and humming softly.

“Come on angel. Show me what you got.”

**Author's Note:**

> A HUGE THANK TO @oneofwebs, @D20Owlbear, and @imperiousheiress FOR LITERALLY HELPING ME GET THIS FUCKIN THING POLISHED AND READY TO GO. Y'ALL ARE MY LIFE SAVERS AND MY LOVES AND THIS FIC WOULD LITERALLY NOT EXIST WITHOUT YOU.


End file.
